Back to the source: my journey into Yunnan cuisine

20 Feb 2026

Chef

Chef Vicky Lau visits the southern Chinese region and finds a “world that unfolds like a watercolour” and inspiration for her new restaurant, Jija

My first encounter with Yunnan was not through travel, but through whispers in the kitchen. Fellow chefs spoke of morel mushrooms harvested from forests 2,000 metres above sea level, of heirloom roses distilled into vinegar, of tea leaves so young they still held morning dew. For years, I was intrigued by this southern frontier – a region that felt simultaneously ancient and full of possibility.

Landing at Dali Airport, the world unfolds like a watercolour painting, misty blue skies brushed against ochre mountains, the scent of damp red earth riding the wind. The moment we began driving toward the old town, I knew I wanted to go straight to the source of local life: the market.

In the wet market, the air itself feels seasoned – bouquets of herbs, wild honey, dried spices and flowers, mountains of mushrooms in every form, and a passionfruit perfume. I found myself photographing everything I saw, wondering: why have I never seen ingredients like these before?”

As a chef, a visit here feels like returning to the source. You feel nature’s rhythm, and you remember that cuisine is not invented; it is found and shaped by its surroundings.

"In the wet market, the air itself feels seasoned"

My first impression of Yunnan’s cuisine was its intimacy with nature. Ingredients were not treated as commodities; they were relationships. The locals spoke of their produce as one might speak of old friends – gently, proudly, sometimes protectively. Aromatic herbs like sawtooth coriander and wild mint brightened every corner of the market. I fell in love with the diversity of mushrooms – matsutake, porcini, termite and ganba – each offering its own conversation with the earth. Even tofu, often humble elsewhere, wore a thousand faces in Yunnan, from airy fermented cubes to smoky grilled sheets.

The cooking itself was incredibly simple yet elegant. A quick blanch in mountain water, a flash stir-fry in peanut oil, a slow stone-pot simmer that allows flavours to deepen naturally – these are techniques that honour the ingredient rather than manipulate it. One dish, a soup of sour tomato with pickled greens and chilli, left me speechless. It captured Yunnan’s essence: sharp, bright, comforting and profoundly clean.

After years of working in fine dining, it was refreshing to be reminded that cuisine need not be complex to speak of culture and depth. What I took away from those visits was not just inspiration – it was humility. In Yunnan, I saw how food can be both intellectual and instinctive. The landscapes themselves teach restraint; the ingredients don’t need embellishment, only understanding.

At Jija, I wanted to bring that philosophy into a Hong Kong context. We began exploring ingredients that echo Yunnan’s terroir – local herbs, earthy broths, lightly fermented vegetables – while also employing European techniques that refine and reimagine them. The result is a dialogue between two worlds: one rooted in the highlands, the other in the harbour.

Creating Jija for a Hong Kong palate was a challenge in translation – not linguistic, but sensory. Yunnanese flavours are bold, sour and occasionally wild. Hong Kong diners, long accustomed to refined Cantonese subtlety, respond differently to rustic intensity. My goal was to find harmony: to preserve the integrity of those flavours while presenting them in forms that feel elevated and accessible.

There were, of course, challenges. Finding Yunnanese ingredients of the same quality in Hong Kong required extensive sourcing and close collaboration with local suppliers. Not everyone immediately understood our approach, but curiosity was always there.

Hong Kong has always been a city of bridges – between East and West, tradition and innovation, memory and reinvention. I think this is why Jija has found its place here. The city recognises the beauty of connection. It knows that food is more than nourishment – it's a narrative.